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supervisors. Every thranx needs the camaraderie of the hive.”
    Nio whistled amusement. “Why, Des, you hypocrite.”
    “Not at all,” he shot back. “I need the hive around me as much as anyone. But not at all times, and not when I’m in search of inspiration.” He looked up and past her, to the north. “I need to do something wonderful, something unique, something extraordinary, Nio. Not for me is the comfortable, easy life we usually aspire to. Something inside me pushes me to do more.”
    “Really?” Broud had had just about enough of their pretentious and probably unbalanced colleague. “What?”
    Eyes full of reflected sunlight focused on his. “If I could explain it away, my friend, I would be assembling appliances and not words. I would be like a worker and not a poet.”
    Broud shifted uncomfortably. Without actually coming out and saying so, or directly denigrating Broud’s profession, the other male had made him feel a bit like a lowly line worker himself. Des did not give him time to ponder the actuality of any deeper meaning hidden in his comment, however.
    “Can you help me, Broud?
Will
you help me?”
    Caught between Desvendapur’s unwavering stare and Nio’s curious one, Broud felt trapped into assenting. “As I’ve said, there is little I can do.”
    “Little is what I have here. Your help is more than I could hope for.”
    All four trulegs shifted beneath Broud’s abdomen. “If it will make you happy…” he clicked lamely.
    “I’m not sure that anything will make me happy, Broud. There are times when I would welcome death as an end to all this purposeless striving and futile activity in search of newness. But in lieu of an incipient demise—yes, it would make me less miserable.”
    “Then I’ll see what I can do for you. I do not know how close I can get you to this mythical colony site. It is possible that I am already the nearest artist within our classification, and as you know, a little poetry goes a long way.”
    “Do the best you can.” Advancing almost threateningly, Des dipped his antennae to entwine them tightly with the other male’s. “After inspiration, hope is the best any poet can wish for.”
    “Just how close to these creatures are you hoping to get?” Nio asked him.
    Desvendapur’s tone, his whistles and clicks, were charged with excitement. “As close as possible. As close as you and I are now. I want to see them, to look upon their deformities, to smell their alien odor, if they have one. I want to peer into their eyes, run my truhands over their soft, pulpy skin, listen to the internal rumblings of their bodies. I will incorporate my reactions in a dramatic narrative suitable for distribution across all the thranx worlds!”
    “What if, assuming any are present, they’re simply too hideous, too alien to study at close range?” she challenged him. “I’ve seen the pictures of them, too, and while it is nice to think that we might have some new intelligent friends in this part of the Arm, I’m not sure I would want to spend any time in their actual company. That may be a matter best left to contact specialists.” One foothand contorted in a gesture of mild distaste. “It is said that they have a vile odor.”
    “If specialists can sustain contact and survive, so can I. Believe me, Nio, there is little in reality that can exceed the warped imaginings of my mind.”
    “I have no doubt of that,” Broud muttered. Already he was regretting his compliance, his offer to assist his colleague in his inexplicable efforts to get close to the aliens. Of course, it was very likely that there were no humans on Willow-Wane and that Desvendapur would be wasting time and energy looking for them. The thought made him feel better.
    “If it exists, this is not only a secretive but highly sensitive government undertaking.” Nio put a truhand on Des’s thorax, just below the neck and above the first pair of breathing spicules. “You’re not going to do anything